The next day saw little change in Captain Artemus Gordon's condition. He was no better and no worse. All in all that was a positive sign, Jim and the doctor thought. Patients who were septic went downhill fast, and at least Arte hadn't done that yet. But a fever was still there and he hadn't regained consciousness either. None of that made a dent in Great Aunt Maude Gordon's iron determination to nurse her grand-nephew back to health. Jim was only on light duty because of his 'scratch,' which was healing nicely in spite of his best efforts to ignore it. When he went to the infirmary to look in on Arte, Aunt Maude was already there, dabbing at the injured man's forehead and carefully spooning broth and water down his throat as he swallowed reflexively. For all that Maude was old enough to be Jim's grandmother – his late grandmother – she acted like the most tireless volunteer they'd ever had. She must have been cajoling others outside the infirmary tent too. Jim noticed that there were a few more – and more positive – visitors in the 'severely wounded' section than usual.
Jim knew she wasn't really tireless though, so once again he offered to take up her post while she took an afternoon break. She was leaving to exit out the front of the tent/ward when the commotion occurred.
"No! No! No!" a man's voice was shouting – almost screaming. "You can't send me back! No!"
Uh oh, Jim thought. Another nutter.
It wasn't crazy to want to stay away from the battlefront, but in a few soldiers out of the teeming throng, reluctance went straight past cowardice and into downright hysteria. That was never good. Such men could become a danger to themselves or others. In desperation to avoid the enemy, they'd create worse mayhem for their own side. That's what this sounded like – with too many vulnerable patients in harm's way.
"No! Nooooo!" the noisemaker screamed. "I won't go back!"
Jim stood up. From where he was, he could see a patient from the 'lightly wounded' section doing the screaming – someone very not happy to be discharged.
Jim started to move forward to confront the screamer, but to his horror the hysterical man was moving even faster and making his way straight toward the back of the tent on a direct line for Aunt Maude. The crazy knocked Arte's elderly aunt aside as if she were no more than a bundle of dry kindling, then grabbed up a sword that had been propped next to its owner's bedside and pointed it straight at Jim. Hell. Jim had his sidearm and could draw faster than even this man could stab him, but dared he do it in such close quarters? He wouldn't miss, but the bullet wouldn't stop with just one body in its way either. The slug would pass right through this man and possibly hit someone else – not a chance worth taking. Jim could probably knock the sword out of the deranged man's grip and kayo him in the process, but that too risked hitting and hurting one of the patients. He swayed like a snake ready to strike, or to dodge the blade if he had to, but every option seemed like a bad one, for the other patients if not for him.
As Jim and the crazed man squared off in their uneasy standoff and the crazy looked ready to make another, more aggressive move with the sword, Jim suddenly saw a flash of white and black. A ceramic chamber-pot rose up behind the crazy's head and two stick thin, black-garbed arms brought it crashing down on the would-be swordsman's skull with enough force to knock him to the ground and split the pot in two. The sword clattered out of the hysterical man's hands and as he lay on the floor of the tent, a thoroughly disgusted and angry Maude Gordon threw the broken pieces of chamber-pot down on top of him and then grabbed up a nearby crutch for her own weapon, with which she began beating the wretch.
Whack!
"Shame on you!" she cried.
Whack!
"For shame!"
Whack!
"Attacking a defenseless . . ."
Whack!
". . . helpless, little . . ."
Whack!
". . . old lady!"
Whack!
Jim stepped in and put a restraining hand on the crutch before Aunt Maude could break it over the stunned man's body, almost feeling sorry for the beaten-up crazy. She surrendered the bludgeoning weapon to him with no more than a disgusted snort aimed at the man at her feet, who was now groaning and semi-conscious at best. If this deranged patient hadn't wanted to be released from medical care, he was going to get his wish, thanks to her, and maybe a stay in the lockup or a mental hospital afterwards. Defenseless, helpless little old lady indeed! Oh, she was related to Artemus all right!
"Are you okay, Ma'am?" Jim asked.
Aunt Maude blinked, as if considering. She patted herself down, wiped some dust and grime from her black dress, adjusted the long obsidian necklace and took an unspoken inventory before nodding.
"No thanks to that ruffian!" she harrumphed as said ruffian was half-carried, half-dragged out of the infirmary tent by a pair of unsmiling sentries. Well, mostly unsmiling. Camp gossip seemed to spread news faster than any telegraph. By suppertime, Jim bet, the story of just how defenseless and helpless this particular little old lady was might reach past the Generals' tents and halfway to Washington and someone would be suggesting they recruit a biddy brigade! Oh, that would be a story worth telling Artemus all right . . . . But first, Jim made sure Maude Gordon had the escort of a couple of her flock as well as a sturdy soldier to walk her back to the Volunteers reception tent. He hoped a cup of tea and some cookies might suffice to recover her from today's misadventure.
As he took up position next to Artemus Gordon's bedside, Jim felt himself grinning and shaking his head in spite of the grim surroundings. A hostile, trained and armed combatant taken down by an old woman using a chamber-pot and crutch for found weapons! Maybe a biddy brigade wouldn't have been such a bad idea. Maybe the South was lucky the North didn't have more great aunts and retired school marms! Chuckling to himself, Jim shook his head again as he took up a cool, damp rag.
"Arte, buddy, have I got a story for you . . . ."
[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
The next day when Jim saw Maude Gordon again, it wasn't in the infirmary tent but a distance outside the hospital tent where she was conferring in earnest with another of the black-clad volunteer ladies. She didn't appear to be haranguing the woman, but rather consoling her. The other woman looked worried. It was none of Jim's business as he bloody well knew, but he let curiosity get the better of him. In addition to having the keenest eyesight of any soldier in the camp, he also had the keenest hearing. His sharp senses, as well as his other talents, were among the reasons he'd been chosen from time to time to undertake dangerous intelligence missions for the army. If he concentrated he could hear every word.
"But whatever will you do, dear?" The worried volunteer wrung her hands. "We must be getting back and the hotel is only paid through tomorrow!"
"And so you shall go, my dear," Maude soothed, patting those wringing hands. "You and the others must by all means keep to your schedule. I shall be perfectly all right down here by myself. I cannot leave my nephew as I find him now, and the darling boy's parents will support me in this. I will telegraph George shortly. Now don't you worry about a thing! Gladys is perfectly capable of shepherding you back without my help."
Reassuring the troops, Jim thought to himself. The older female volunteers were a bit of a biddy brigade already.
"But by yourself!" the woman protested.
"I shall find a way!" Maude declared. "I'm a Gordon, and you know what that means."
"That you are as stubborn as a mule," her companion grumbled sullenly.
"That also," Maude agreed. "Now run along, you, and help the others to pack. New York has spared you long enough, but as for me, I shall stay – and that is my final word. I shall safeguard my virtue among all these handsome young men somehow, I assure you."
"Oh, Maude," the other woman sniffled, but gave no further argument and went scurrying off as ordered.
Jim seriously doubted the elderly auntie would have to worry about safeguarding her virtue under any circumstances. But he, Charlie Tobin, and Artemus' own troops had already quietly put out the word around camp that if anyone gave this old woman so much as a twig's worth of trouble, they'd be answering for it, hard. Jim for one was grateful that she'd be staying behind to help his friend. Arte still hadn't awakened, but he hadn't gone septic either, and the doctor thought he might be showing signs of improvement. It hadn't occurred to Jim to wonder how long this particular group of volunteers might have been at Petersburg already before he'd shown up from the field with the wounded Captain Gordon.
Pep talk given, Maude Gordon was marching off herself as resolute and square-shouldered as ever. Jim still had some duties of his own to attend to, so he figured he'd just find her in the infirmary tent as usual, tending to Arte and trying to prod some cheer into the other badly wounded patients as usual.
[WWWWWWWWWWW]
'Light' duty wasn't always light, even for men with scratches, though most of the heavy lifting required of Captain James West on this day was mental rather than physical. He was flattered that senior-ranking officers actually wanted to consult with him on tactics and strategy. It was a welcome change from the early days of the war, when most of the 'superior' officers had judged a twenty year-old captain (correctly) as arrogant and inexperienced. Now he no longer envied the Generals their rank or their responsibility for sending masses of men to their deaths. He might have started his adulthood as a show-off. He could happily leave the showing off to others now. The greater good, the larger goals of this fight – that was what really mattered. He'd had enough deaths on his hands as the good soldier he was.
Trudging over to the infirmary tent with a body still energetic but a mind preoccupied with weightier matters, he was looking forward to receiving a bit of pep talk himself. He expected Maude Gordon still to be there and felt guilty that he hadn't been able to relieve her of her post sooner as he often did. The sounds he heard as he made his way toward the back of the tent put some extra spring in his step though – Arte's voice! He was sure he heard it! Arte must be awake at last! Trying to pick up the pace without knocking anything over or colliding with/disturbing the nurses or patients, he had almost reached his friend's bedside when what he heard stopped him in his tracks.
"But why, Aunt Maude?" Arte was mumbling, eyes not really open. "Why does he hate me?"
Maude Gordon was there, once again mopping her nephew's fevered brow. It was clear Arte wasn't all the way conscious yet, but in a semi-conscious delirium, and not a happy one.
"He doesn't hate you, Artemus," Aunt Maude told him. "Your father loves you. He just isn't good at showing it. That's how he is."
As Artemus' face wrinkled in argument, Jim felt his own cheeks flush. This was a private conversation he definitely had no business hearing, and neither participant was aware of his presence. Out of respect for his friend's privacy, Jim tried to back away and in doing so accidentally knocked up against a cane that someone had left propped near an empty bed, and sent the stick falling. That made Maude Gordon realize he was standing there. Her stricken expression as he picked up the cane told Jim everything he needed to know. Neither Gordon would have wanted him to hear what he had just heard. Well, to spare their feelings Jim had better see if all those acting lessons Arte had given him during their encounters were sinking in.
"Uh, sorry," Jim said. "I'm not usually such a klutz! But I thought I heard Arte calling me only it made no sense – Be Jim or something?" Trying to look as blank and confused as possible, he scratched at one of his ears and apologized again. "Hearing's not so good these days. All those artillery shells . . . ."
At once he saw her look of relief, and she smiled up at him and gave Artemus a gentle pat on the shoulder.
"Artemus, your friend Jim is here to visit you," she said rather louder than usual. "You should have a nice chat with him. Won't that be nice?" Her tone and face contained only the slightest trace of strain as she turned back toward Jim. "He's delirious, I'm afraid. You mustn't pay too much mind of anything he says at all at the moment. The doctors say it is an improving sign, though, so we must feel encouraged!"
Jim nodded. He was about to change places with her at Arte's bedside as had become their routine when he suddenly heard from the far side of the infirmary tent someone hailing him by name. Without even thinking, he whipped his head around to acknowledge the distant speaker. It was only someone wishing to give him a friendly wave, not summon him for any reason. But when he turned his head back around and saw the penetrating gaze Aunt Maude was now giving him, he felt his cheeks grow hot again. Caught in his own lie, by a schoolteacher no less. He had only meant to spare both Gordons' feelings, but still . . . . Jim cast his eyes down toward the ground like a guilty schoolboy, not wanting to meet that gaze again or see the hurt he inadvertently caused. He half expected a lecture.
"Jim . . . ."
Aunt Maude's voice was soft, but did not sound hurt at all, or reproving. When Jim looked up again, he saw only a sad smile and something like gratitude. There was a kind of silent understanding in that expression.
"I think you really are a very good friend to Artemus," she said. "And a good man as well. Thank you, Jim."
Jim nodded. He didn't know what more there was to say at a time like this, and he doubted he could say much around the lump that had developed in his throat. She stayed a little longer, making sure her nephew was resting easier before she trusted him entirely to Jim's care. As she departed, something about her nagged at Jim – some difference in her, or in her appearance that he couldn't quite put his finger on . . . .
[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
"Ready to go, Cap'n?"
"Sure am!" Jim grinned, making certain his officer's uniform was neat and in order, brass buttons polished and shining. He, Charlie and several others had been given leave to go out tonight for the sort of military review he liked best. The prettiest girls in Petersburg would be reviewing them all right and Jim, the proudest and most self-assured of peacocks, had the best display. Oh, the ladies were going to like him! They paid a lot of attention to appearance. Jim had been taught early on that jackets best buttoned were often the first unbuttoned, and he felt like he had a month's worth of unbuttoning to do tonight. And why shouldn't he whoop it up? He'd been helping to look after his best remaining friend all week – and to a lesser extent the friend's great aunt too. The doctors had assured Jim that Arte's fever was finally abating, his wounds were healing and he was expected to awaken any time now. So Jim had better have a few more risqué stories to tell him when that happened, hadn't he?
Best of all, Jim and the others had just been given a week's pay. Technically it was for a week that had happened last month, but what did that matter? If there was one thing a pretty girl liked even better than a comely captain in uniform, it was a comely captain in uniform who could spring for drinks, dinner and, ideally, breakfast. And if there was one thing Captain James West liked most, it was pretty girls.
The group of Union soldiers was already starting in on the whooping part as they sauntered and swaggered their way in to Petersburg proper. Years of listening to rebel yells had made the men determined to prove that Union troops could be even noisier. Where plain townsfolk were concerned, it had a practical side as well. Those who did not welcome the soldiers were being given fair warning to close the shutters, lock doors and stay out of their way. But those who welcomed the blue-dressed troops would come out to greet them. Either way, everybody knew the boys were back in town. They were joking and jostling as the first of the stores came into view.
A couple of men broke off from the rest to run ahead toward the tobacconist's shop and the liquor store to get the first crack at the goods available. Jim stayed with the main pack, not because he wasn't eager, but because it didn't suit his officer's status to look too eager. As a captain, he'd be given access to the best of what was on offer whenever he arrived and he knew it. The cluster sauntered toward Petersburg's premier pawn shop window display, not to sell but to buy. You never knew what you might find within, but some of the men would buy pretty baubles to attract the ladies. Jim never resorted to such tactics – he preferred to be the pretty bauble. But he was curious by nature and sometimes enjoyed looking at the odder objects in the collection. Tonight's display offered up a new cabinet of curiosities, small statues, metal tools of indiscernible use, a selection of ungentlemanly gentleman's top hats. Those weren't what caught Jim's attention though.
"Cap'n," Charlie whispered, noticing the same object Jim had his eyes on, "isn't that . . . ?"
Jim nodded.
He'd only ever seen one big, dramatic-looking obsidian necklace in his life and he was sure he was staring at it again now, perched on a mannequin's neck, with a little paper tag attached. There was no tarnished silver locket hanging from it, but with the chip in the largest stone, he'd have known that necklace anywhere. Seeing it here, he realized what had been teasing at his subconscious about Maude Gordon's appearance earlier. She hadn't been wearing her prized possession because she'd already pawned it. That's what she had done to stay on after her volunteers' group had left. Jim had always assumed that Arte, with his obvious education, refined tastes and tales of growing up in a huge house came from money. Jim had never asked though. Maude's careworn weeds were not an affectation after all, but a sign of something else.
The other men had eyed the necklace too now. At least one or two of them had recognized it also and had begun mumbling among themselves.
"Cap'n," Charlie asked, eyes still on the old, fancy necklace, "what do you think we should do?"
But Jim wasn't listening – because Jim had already gone inside the shop.
[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]
Morning dawned, as it does even when it isn't quite wanted. By the time a bleary Captain James West stumbled his way toward the infirmary tent, it was several hours past dawn. He'd been feeling lighter in spirit than he had in days, maybe weeks. Now as he approached his destination, a lot of that lightness began to dissipate. It wasn't just the dreariness of the surroundings, but the daunting task ahead. How should he handle this? Buck up, he told himself. It was best just to bite the bullet and get it over with.
"Ma'am," Jim said, tilting in a bow-like way toward Great Aunt Maude as he made his way to the familiar bedside and its attendant.
"Jim?" the old woman asked, peering up at him in concern. "Are you all right? I must say, young man, you do not look well at all."
"I'm all right," he told her. "Just a bit tired. The boys and I went in to town last night."
"And came back this morning," she sighed, getting up from her chair. "Well have a seat, young rascal! And don't hang your head about it just because I'm here! I'm sure my nephew would be doing the same thing if he could." She smiled back at Artemus, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. "Perhaps someday soon again, I hope?"
Jim didn't reply, reaching into his crumpled blue jacket.
"Ma'am . . . ."
"His fever has broken at last," she continued on, leaning down, feeling her nephew's forehead with the front and then the back side of her hand, almost oblivious to the man she was speaking to.
"Ma'am . . . ."
The third Ma'am in a row got her attention. She faced Jim as he stood next to her rather than taking the chair. She looked ready to say something in exasperation when she saw he held a small papered package in one hand and had something more than the one word to say.
Bite the bullet, Jim told himself.
"The thing of it is, Miss Gordon," he cleared his throat, "the boys and I really appreciate what you're doing for Captain Gordon, so . . . so we sort of chipped in and . . . ." He held out the brown paper package to her.
"Oh?" She took it from him and Jim sucked his breath in, uncertain what her reaction would be as she undid the string and began to unfold the brown paper. Her eyes grew wide as her fingers felt what it must be first, before the shiny, dark bits of stone came into view. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Ohhhh . . . ."
She collapsed back into the chair she had just vacated, and for a few terrifying seconds, Jim was afraid she had suffered a heart attack or apoplexy. But then he saw her clutch the necklace tight in one wrinkled hand and lift it up to kiss it. Her eyes were closed tight and there were tears – not of shame but gratitude – trickling down her cheeks as she put it on over her head again.
"I do love this, you know," she whispered, adjusting the beads so that it hung in its proper position once more.
Jim said nothing. Anyone who'd seen her at the camp would have known she loved that necklace. But it was just as obvious that she loved her family more.
Now it was her turn to reach inside her clothing. Jim saw her draw from inside her high neckline a strand of cheap, sturdy thread to which her tarnished silver locket had been attached. With trembling hands, she undid it from the thread and tried to reattach it to a small hook on the obsidian necklace. But the locket slipped through her unsteady fingers to land, with a tiny clatter, at Jim's feet. Able to bend down quickly and more easily than her, Jim scooped it up to hand back to her while she was still stifling an exclamation at her own clumsiness. As he did so, he felt the locket come open and was careful not to drop the tiny lock of brown hair that fell out of it.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" she cried, relieved that he had caught that as he handed it back to her. He could see that in addition to the lock of hair, the locket itself contained two miniature portraits of the very old variety. He was curious to see them, but out of courtesy did not hesitate in turning them over. "Thank you, Jim!"
Maude Gordon cradled the precious objects in her hands as if they were holy relics. She rubbed the lock of hair gently, a memento of someone loved and now lost. He knew that old people, people of Maude's generation, often held on to such a souvenir. A sibling perhaps, or . . . .
"Your parents?" he asked. He couldn't help noticing that the tiny portraits were of a man and woman.
Maude shook her head. She hesitated for a moment, then held the locket open and up so he could see the pictures more clearly. The portrait on the left side of the locket was of a handsome and sturdy young man wearing a blue military officer's uniform of a type he didn't recognize. His hair matched in color the tiny saved lock, which must have come from him. The portrait on the right was of a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman who was smiling more radiantly than was typical in such miniatures – a bold young lass. Jim resisted the urge to whistle, but whoever she was, she had been a real beauty.
"My fiancé and myself," she explained as she placed the lock of hair and closed up the silver locket once more. Now Jim had to resist gaping as well. It was impossible to equate the withered old woman before him with the ravishing creature in the portrait and yet . . . . Well, she must have been young once, hadn't she? "His name was Phineas," she said with a sad smile. "Phineas Cooper. A captain, like yourself and Artemus. He died in 1814 when the British attacked and burned our Capitol. It was a hopeless fight, but he and the others bought time enough for Mrs. Madison and the White House staff to escape. He was very brave." She made a low sniffling noise and wiped one last tear away. "My full name is Madeleine Elizabeth Gordon. Most of the boys called me Maddy in those days, or Meg, because of my initials. But Phineas always called me his Maude. Since I never got the chance to take his name at our wedding, I have kept the one name he had already given me. Always."
"And you never married . . . ." Jim's words came out before he could stop them. That was an almost unimaginable tragedy to him. A woman like the one in the portrait – a gorgeous hothouse flower - she'd have attracted a whole swarm of young men. Probably could have had her pick of any one of them.
"No," she said. "The rest of the family wasn't happy about that, of course. But I only loved Phineas. I will love him until I die." On her second attempt, she managed to secure the locket back onto the obsidian necklace with a snap. "Well, enough about me. And yourself, Jim? Is there a woman out there wearing you around her neck?"
"Me?" He almost jumped back at the question. No way he was settling down, ever. "No! I'm not really the marrying type."
"Indeed?" Maude gave him a quizzical look. "Well, was she pretty at least?"
"Huh? Was who pretty?"
"The blond woman whose hair is on your collar this morning." The old woman sounded amused.
Jim inspected his jacket and collar and pulled loose a long, blond strand that he hadn't noticed until that moment. Thanks to the rest of the men chipping in toward Jim's purchase of the obsidian necklace, he'd managed to afford his evening on the town after all, if with a less fancy supper and breakfast than the one he'd anticipated. At least the slight shortness of funds had saved him from a probable hangover.
"Um, yes," he admitted. "Very pretty." Skillful, too.
A groaning sound from the bed spared Jim any further embarrassment, as Arte appeared to be stirring fitfully in his sleep. His eyes didn't open, but he was definitely making a new, maybe hopeful sound. Aunt Maude turned her attention back to him in an instant, gently felt his forehead again, then leapt up without another word to go fetch one of the doctors or nurses. Jim, astonished once more at the little old lady's speed, sank down in the vacated chair and laid a hand on Arte's forehead himself. It didn't seem as though there was a fever still, but Jim wasn't the best judge of such things. He didn't have the magical ability to spot a fever at fifty paces that most mothers seemed to possess.
"Wha . . . ." Arte mumbled groggily. At long last, the wounded man's eyelids fluttered open and he gazed upwards. "Jim?" His voice was so weak it was barely a whisper, but he was conscious and able to recognize who he was seeing.
"Welcome back, buddy," Jim responded, grinning from ear to ear, all fatigue forgotten.
Arte's eyes stared about as the patient tried to assess his location and winced in pain as he tried to move. Several days of unconsciousness had left him stiff and weak, and he'd discover soon enough the extent of his injuries.
"Take it easy," Jim told him. "Your Aunt Maude's gone to get a doctor. Looks like you're going to pull through after all!"
"A-Aunt Maude?" Arte stammered, as his expression changed to puzzlement. "Thought I had a dream about her, but . . . ."
"Well, young man," the voice of the party in question harrumphed, "I am glad you consider it a dream and not a nightmare!"
Aunt Maude had arrived with a doctor and a nurse in tow, and in spite of the stern tone she had used, she too was grinning from ear to ear now.
"Oh, Artemus," she exclaimed in a much lighter voice, "it is so good to see you awake!"
The patient was indeed back, but confused, Jim could see. Probably exhausted too, for all that he'd gotten over a week's worth of sleep in the past four days. Jim had so much he wanted to talk about with Artemus now that it would be possible, but it wasn't a real possibility yet. At present, the doctor and nurse were elbowing their way to the fore and even Aunt Maude had to cede the field to them. Jim's conversation – regarding military intelligence and the events that led to Arte's injuries in the first place – needed to be very private. Even Aunt Maude – or especially Aunt Maude – could not be told about that. But Arte was staring past his other three attendants to look up at Jim, an unasked question showing on his features. West, realizing the doctor, nurse and elderly relative were all facing away from him, risked a silent mouthing of the words 'We got him' that only Arte would see. The price had been high, but a vital mission was complete. Tacitus Mosely, the Butcher of Susquehanna, and his lieutenants might have gotten away, but a monster of Andersonville would not escape justice. Arte, understanding the message, sank back on his pillow and allowed his current, much friendlier inquisitors to poke and prod at him as they wished. Jim made his excuses to let them see to their patient while he retreated for his own quarters to catch up on the sleep he hadn't gotten last night.